


Breathe

by DoubledDoors



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, heavier than my usual stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-01 21:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16292018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubledDoors/pseuds/DoubledDoors
Summary: Two sick men contemplate the moment.





	Breathe

Maxwell had tried not to cry. He really had. He’d clenched his jaw and steeled his will, but it hadn’t mattered when he’d spat in his face.

_Ha! The great Maxwell Carter, a lonely, desperate faggot! Who woulda thought?_

Why. Why had he thought it was a good idea. Why had he blindly assumed he had similar feelings to his own. He wanted to throw up. It never got better.

_Are you really gonna cry, you goddamn fairy? Can’t handle rejection? Haha! Pathetic!_

He had somehow managed to take all of Maxwell’s carefully constructed ego, all his pride and dignity and rub it in the mud. He felt disgusting, ill, he’d scrubbed at his skin for hours until he was raw. He couldn’t wash it away.

Walking back to camp had been humiliating. Every set of eyes was on him, staring, waiting for a moment to pounce. He’d made a beeline for his cot and pretended to fall asleep. He didn’t crash until the sun was about to rise.

He’d woken half an hour later shaking, as if feverish, and barely had the strength to get up. He avoided everyone’s gaze, he knew they could tell, they could smell it on him like a plague smells of death. He’d taken the smallest of portions from the fridge and gone back to his tent, eating silently. The stale seeds barely went down.

“Max?”

His heart stopped. Oh god, no. Please. Not Wilson.

He turned his head to the side, looking up at the scientist warily.

“Are you sick? You’ve been looking pale ever since last night. We’re all worried about you, y’know.”

He could feel the tears welling up. He wanted to sink into the ground. He was sick, so very sick.

“...Max? Are you…? Erm...Max, it’s okay, really.”

An arm around his shoulders. Gentle, hesitant, caring. He shook his head. He was sick.

“Can you say something? Please?”

I’m sick.

“We have medicine, y’know. It’s nothing to get upset over.”

Medicine hasn’t worked before. Not on this. Not on me.

“...What the hell are you talking about?”

I’m sick, Wilson. I’m dying. I’m done for. The whole world could’ve known and it’s only by blind luck they didn’t. The whole world would’ve known how sick I am.

“...”

…

“What’ve you got?”

…

“...”

...I’m a fag, Wilson. I’m sorry.

“...A fag? …Is that...all? I’m… Well, I’m not sure that’s a sickness you can cure, Max.”

I don’t— ...Go away, Wilson.

“I’m a fag too, you know. Or maybe you don’t.”

…

“It’s okay to be a little sick in the head, I think. We all are.”

…

“And for the record, I don’t think poorly of you because of that. No one will. At least, no one here. We’ve bigger fish to fry than whether you like men or women.”

You really think so?

“Max, I know so. We’ve all forgiven you for bringing us here, haven’t we? What’s a fag to a kidnapper? We’re all stuck here now, so we might as well care about each other.”

...Erm...I…

“Yeah?”

I didn’t expect you to… I thought you’d be disgusted. Or scared. ...Nevermind. Forget it, Wilson. Pretend we never had this talk. I’m late for collecting the traps.

“Sure, Max. Want a hand?”

I’d like that, Wilson. Just don’t throw dirt at me like last time.

“I’m not making any promises.”


End file.
